


Second Best (I'm Sorry I Was Blind)

by passeridae



Series: little things I should have said and done [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Come Marking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Lobotomies, D/s, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Post-Fall of Overwatch, bimbofication, minor mental breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passeridae/pseuds/passeridae
Summary: Gabriel finds Jack again in a dilapidated building in Dorado. He doesn't know it's Jack, not at first — all he sees is that damned jacket, that fucking visor, and his vision goes red. It's barely a moment before he has the man ripped from sleep and pinned against the wall with a hand around his neck.(Years later, and some desires refuse to change.)
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Series: little things I should have said and done [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533074
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	Second Best (I'm Sorry I Was Blind)

Gabriel finds Jack again in a dilapidated building in Dorado. He doesn't know it's Jack, not at first — all he sees is that damned jacket, that fucking visor, and his vision goes red. It's barely a moment before he has the man ripped from sleep and pinned against the wall with a hand around his neck.

"You've been a problem for me for far too long, _Soldier,_ " he hisses, revelling in the victory he can taste in his throat as the man wakes, groggy and disoriented. "Should I make your demise just as painful as you've made my life?"

The man is struggling against his hand, reaching up to grab at the wrist to try and pry it off. Gabriel's not even really cutting off his air, not completely, he can still gasp in short pants through the pressure on his throat, but he's acting as if he's been choked for real. Gabriel stares in confusion as the man eventually gives up attempting to move his hand, and starts to work instead at the latches that hold his visor to his face. He hasn't made a single move to try and hurt Reaper, no kicking, no thrashing, just his hands moving frantically at some small latch at the hinge of his jaw.

When it comes off, Gabriel drops him back on the ratty mattress below them. He'd thought... all this time, he'd been sure that Jack was dead. But it’s him. It’s Jack staring back up at him, a stubborn set to his jaw like he's about to do something absolutely fucking stupid and charge at the enemy head on. Does he know who Reaper is? Surely he has to, otherwise he would have been trying to make Gabriel get away. All too fast, his confusion turns to anger — anger at Jack, for knowing and saying nothing, anger at himself for not knowing before now. Anger at the world, which led them to _this._

He can't take it, can't do it, doesn't want to know what Jack seems to be trying to say, wraiths away leaving Jack sitting in some dirty house, confused, alarmed, breathing deep into his lungs. Alone.

The next time they meet, Gabriel is just as angry. Once again, Jack is quiet, subdued. Uncharacteristically docile. Gabriel's seen the tapes, he knows that Jack's been ruthlessly cutting down Los Muertos, has jerked off to the raw violence that Jack's been displaying on more than one occasion. That violence that had been so suppressed when they were in Overwatch. (In the back of his mind, he wonders if it's his doing. Lobotomies often take out some degree of impulse control, after all, and they never really tested how far Jack healed after their little sessions.)

But here he is, sitting still on a mattress, blanket around his hips. Waiting.

This time, he doesn't have his visor on when Gabriel arrives, only an undershirt and pair of cotton pants. He looks... soft. Vulnerable. It reminds Gabriel of when Jack used to beg him so sweetly to hurt him, to own him. He doesn't want to be reminded of that.

"Gabriel," Jack mutters, so soft that he almost doesn't hear him. "It really is you, right? I'm not dreaming."

He doesn't want to reply. He wants to leave Jack wallowing in uncertainty and fear, not knowing how Reaper is finding him, why he's here now. Not knowing who Reaper is, if he really is a vestige of his past. But, in the end he can't help himself, Jack's expression is so hopeful, so open. He could never deny him when he looked like this and now is no different. He nods, shortly, twice. He can't trust himself to speak.

"God, Gabriel, I'd thought for so long that you— but then I saw some security footage of you and I knew it couldn't be anyone else, nobody else could dual wield those things." Jack swallows, looks down. His hands are shaking, ever so slightly. Now that he's not covered in layers of kevlar and body armour, Gabriel can't help but notice how _thin_ he is. Skin and muscle and bone, no fat to speak of. Gabriel can almost see his ribs through the translucency of the shirt and a pang of worry strikes him, even as he feels ruthlessly, disgustingly vindicated.

Of course Jack could never survive without him. They were too entwined. He hates the vicious joy that thought brings, but feels it anyway, warm and sweet in his belly. He takes a menacing step towards Jack, puts one claw below his chin to lift his head. He's so pale. Eyes so blue against the pallor, catching on the bruising dappled across his cheekbone and jaw. He's been fighting again, reckless idiot.

Jack barely seems to be breathing, gaze focused on the mask. Gabriel isn't going to take it off, Jack hasn't earned that. Not yet. He breathes out, asks, softly, "have you been thinking about it since we last met?" There's only one thing he could be referring to, of course, one thing that he knows would have been lurking at the back of Jack's brain. Their little sessions, a lifetime ago, Jack's mind and body in his hands.

Jack shudders. He licks his lips, bites at the bottom one. He can't meet Gabriel's eyes. He has been thinking of it, then, and oh how that sends a thrill through Gabriel, knowing that Jack's still the same, underneath it all. Still wants to be handled, and moulded and made _his._

He runs the claw along Jack's jaw, just hard enough to welt, watches as Jack tilts his head to offer him better access.Tucks a lock of hair behind Jack's ear before he settles the hand solidly in Jack's hair. "If you want me to do it," he tells Jack in a rasp, "you're going to have to beg me for it."

Jack's expression firms at that, a flash of something fierce and angry appearing in his eyes. He's never had to beg before, not for this. Wheedle and coax Gabriel to do it at first, yes, confirm that he truly wanted it, yes, but he'd never been told to beg.

They're not those same men, now, and Gabriel wants to see Jack grovel.

He can see the warring behind Jack’s eyes, can see as Jack resists himself, resists how much he desperately wants this. That's alright, Gabriel can wait. He cards his hand through the strands, oily and lank, like Jack hasn't washed in an age. Like he can't bring himself to care. There's a picture being painted here that Gabriel doesn't like. Jack hisses, digs his fingertips into his thighs. He can't look at him, focuses instead on the mattress below. Works his jaw like he's going to open his mouth, but can't bring himself to do so.

Gabriel is patient, he can wait.

He gives Jack half an hour, then wraiths away, leaving him once again alone. He doesn't see the sobs that wrack Jack's frame in the aftermath. They wouldn't have swayed him, anyway.

They fall into a pattern, after a while, of Gabriel showing up at random times, in random safehouses — always at night, always when Jack is asleep or near to it. Then he stands over him, looming and dark. A spectre of a very specific kind of death, if only Jack would give in to it. He hasn't, yet. But Gabriel can see him weakening. Every visit he's a little more wan, a little more yearning. He's been thinking about it, it's plain to see. About how good it was to give himself over to Gabriel, how good it was to not have to think, to worry about all the minutiae of life. How good it was to be cared for. His current living situation doesn't help, of course. Gabriel idly wonders if Jack is doing this on purpose, sabotaging himself, but doesn't let the thought linger. If Jack doesn't want to be his then it's none of his business. If he does, then Gabriel will fix it.

He gives in on a Thursday, the darkness of another grimy safehouse settling into his skin. "Please," he chokes out. "Please, Gabriel, I need it. I need you to—" he stops himself short, swallowing convulsively. He's favouring one side, curled up small against a wall. His shoulders are curled forwards as if that will hide him. "It's been hard, so hard, I— every day is just torturous and it hurts and I want it to stop. You were the only one who ever made it stop." He's shaking, from head to toe. It's muggy outside, Gabriel knows that the tremors are not from the cold. 

Jack breathes heavily, audibly, for a time. "I need it. I need that sensation, that weightlessness, I—" he cuts himself off again, frustrated, overwhelmed, unsure how to speak all these desires that have been festering inside him for so long. "I need you to own me. It's just too much, I need it to stop. It needs to stop."

He trails off, shivering, small. A far cry from the Strike Commander of Overwatch. But then, how different was it, really. Still all the stress and worry, still the fear that whatever he did wouldn't be enough. Poor Jack, putting himself back in the only life he ever knew, without Gabriel there to be his anchor. Jack looks up at him, a flush high in his cheeks, eyes bright, broken, entreating.

"I'll think about it," Gabriel tells him, wraithing away without another word.

———— 

He ignores Jack for a week, focuses on putting their old retreat back together. Before now, he hasn’t allowed himself to do so, acutely aware that Jack could still refuse. Now that he has him, though, he's going to do it right. While Jack’s brain is on holiday, he could be... fragile, and it was best to keep him somewhere familiar. The Morrison family farm was still his, albeit under a pseudonym, but unfortunately that meant that it hadn't been inhabited since they were last there years ago, so everything had to be removed and cleaned, and repaired before it could be returned. New linens, fresh food. All the little things that went into making a house a home. At the end of it, Gabriel is exhausted, but the place looks like they never left.

His pleasure lasts up until he finds Jack again. He’s in yet another safe house, grimy and dilapidated, except that this one is covered in blood. Jack’s blood. The man himself is jammed into the bathtub, blood dripping down the drain in erratic bursts. Probably didn’t want to get the already-disgusting mattress dirty, the absolute idiot. His breaths are short and laboured, clearly hurting him on every inhale. Gabriel snarls at the sight, can’t help himself — that Jack would let himself get so broken is absolutely abhorrent to him. He’s Gabriel’s to hurt, nobody else’s. 

He compulsively grinds his teeth, starts mentally cataloguing Jack’s injuries. At least one broken rib, judging by the breathing, clear blood loss. Some of the cuts littering Jack’s body look days old, partially healed, while others seem fresh. His throat tenses at the realisation that Jack hasn’t let himself rest since they last met. He’d just fought, and fought, until he couldn’t anymore, then crawled here to die. The son of a bitch. His death wasn’t his to choose anymore, he’d given that over to Gabriel when he’d begged for him. How dare he finally do that and then turn around and try to snatch it back. The ungrateful little— 

Jack laughs weakly from the tub, head flopping to the side to look vaguely in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel had thought him unconscious. “Hey Gabe, thought you’d left for good. Who’d want me, right?” He laughs, mirthless, then winces as the motion jostles his ribs. The movement reopens a split in his lip, and the blood drips down his chin to spatter on the tile. He doesn’t lift a hand to wipe it away, doesn’t seem to have the energy. His eyes flutter as if they want to shut but he’s forcing them open.

To look at Gabriel. To reassure himself he was actually there.

Jack has always been an idiot.

All too easily, now, Gabriel can see what Jack must have thought when he wraithed away at the end of their last meeting. Not that he needed time to make arrangements, no, but a rejection. As if, _I’ll think about it,_ had ever been a rejection from him. It wasn’t the first time he said it, hadn’t once been so in the time since, but clearly Jack wasn’t thinking straight if he’d wound up like this. Clearly, now, he could see that things had slipped far further than he’d thought while he and Jack had been apart. And with Gabe rejecting him, Jack hadn’t known what else to do but die. It’d be far more flattering if it wasn’t so frustrating.

With a heartfelt sigh he steps close to the bathtub, the sound of his boots echoing around the small space. “You always were good at seeming functional even when you were breaking, weren’t you.” Jack can’t deny it, wouldn’t even if he had the energy to try — it’s what made him such an effective Strike Commander, even when he was on the brink of a meltdown. What let him keep going and going past the point where a sane person would have stopped. Clearly they’d been apart for too long if Gabriel hadn’t seen the signs this time.

“Come on Jackie, let’s get you back where you belong.”

———— 

He lobotomises Jack at the kitchen table, just like old times. Jack manages to hold himself upright for it, if barely, and the desperate hope in his eyes plucks at something deep in Gabriel’s chest. “It’ll all be over soon,” he promises as he pulls the pick from its case. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you.” Jack’s nod is tiny, but fervent, and his grip on the chair is white-knuckled in its intensity. He holds perfectly still as the pick slides home. 

Once the deed’s done, Gabe hauls Jack up and takes him to the bathroom to wash. They’re both grimy, and Jack smells strongly enough that Gabe knows he hasn’t bathed in at least a week. Probably longer. There’s no way he’s letting Jack into their bed before he’s cleaned. As he strips him, he begins to regret having been so hasty with the pick — Jack’s in an even worse state than he’d thought, almost scrawny in how thin he’s become and absolutely mottled with slices and bruises. There isn’t an inch of skin that’s free of blood. Usually their healing takes care of superficial things like these within hours, at the most. For them to still be all over him by now, he must have substantial internal injuries that the serum is prioritising. Just the ribs would have been fine, but this... 

“You fucking idiot,” Gabriel growls at them both as he picks Jack up and carries them both under the spray of the shower. There’s a bath already drawn, but Jack’s so dirty that there’s no point putting him in there now unless Gabriel just wants to even out the grime on his skin. Jack gasps at the sensation of water beating down on his skin, flinching away. Gabriel tries to wash him carefully, mindful of the pain he must be experiencing, but Jack whimpers at the touches all the same. Buries his face in Gabriel’s neck, like that’ll help hide him from it. It’s sweetly endearing, the way that Jack always is in this state, looking to Gabriel for comfort even when he’s the one doling out pain. He tries to go as quickly as possible. 

Settling Jack in the bathtub is another saga. At first, he lowers him gently into the steaming water and Jack flinches away again, trying to crawl back into Gabriel’s arms. Once in the water, he becomes even more agitated, shifting from side to side restlessly and making little hurt noises that quickly turn to sobs as the movements jostle his more substantial injuries. There’s no way Gabriel’s going to be able to finish washing him like this. 

In the end, he winds up in the bath with Jack stretched out over his lap. Unlike the hard ceramic of the tub, his thighs are soft enough that Jack can sit comfortably, and he quickly settles with the softness and heat. A few residual tears slip down his cheeks, and Gabriel finally lets himself appreciate how pretty they look on Jack. It’d be better if they were from pleasure, of course, but he’ll take what he can get for now. Jack will hardly be up to anything athletic for quite some time.

Now that he’s calm, and safe, Jack quickly falls asleep against Gabriel, nodding off as he soaps the grease out of Jack’s hair. It’s not that much different to having him awake, in all honesty, just less noisy as he finishes rinsing them both and gives up on attempting to dry them, carrying Jack to bed. The sheets stick to their skin, but that’s a small price to pay. 

Even asleep Jack clings close, holding on to Gabriel like his life depends on it. Dependent. Wholly dependent on him once more. Gabriel cups one bruised cheek, runs the pad of his thumb over the bruising that’s collected below Jack’s orbital lobe. The bruising that he put there. It’s almost pavlovian at this stage, the way that turns him on. The bruises, Jack’s reliance on him, Jack being _his._ He tries to ignore the heat that trickles through him, but with Jack wriggling against him in his sleep he can’t quite manage to push it aside. With a low curse, he reaches down to curl his hand around his cock. 

He doesn’t try to draw it out, mostly wants it over and done with so he can sleep. The drag is rough, callouses catching on skin, and he hisses as his hips jerk enough that he butts up against Jack’s belly. He stares at Jack’s face, angelic in the dim light, finally peaceful at rest, places chaste little kisses over the bridge of his nose as he slumbers on. Jack makes a soft little noise in his sleep, and that, combined with a well timed flick of his wrist, is enough to tip him over the edge, coming into the scant space between them.

He lets go of his cock and runs a palm through his release, smearing it into Jack’s skin, across his belly and chest. It’s not something he really thinks about until after he’s done it, and the pleasure of marking Jack as his with something so intimate wars with the practical side of him which informs him that now they need another shower.

He sets it aside. That’s for him to worry about after they’ve got some sleep. Now, together, the two of them have plenty of time.


End file.
